All the sour black misery of his father’s death and his own exile rose up and choked him. Tears stung his eyes; he clenched his teeth and drove his fist against the brick wall of Ludlow Alley. He stood there motionless for a full minute, leaning against the wall; then he straightened up and strode off, impatient with himself for having indulged this maudlin side of his nature.
When he entered Orcrist’s sitting room he had forced himself to become quite cheerful. He poured a good-sized glass of scotch, took a deep sip of it, and then set it down while he fetched his pipe and tobacco. Orcrist had brought him a can of good tobacco, thickly laced with spicy black latakia, and he was beginning to like the stuff. Now he was even able to keep the pipe lit. Soon the pungent smoke hung in layers across the room as he absorbed himself with a book of A. E. Housman’s poetry.
“Well, Frank!” boomed Orcrist’s voice. “I didn’t expect to see you this early. Didn’t Rutledge show up?”
“Oh, he was there,” answered Frank. “We broke up early, that’s all. It’s been an eventful evening. The Leethee, if you haven’t yet heard, is packed with fugitive farmers from the Goriot Valley, all headed for the Deptford Sea—the south coast, I guess. And then on the way home Rutledge and I were stopped by four Transport cops and we had to kill them all.”
“They were down here?” asked Orcrist. “Understreet?”
“That’s right. Four of them, asking for identification cards.”
Orcrist shook his head. “Something, I’m afraid, has got to be done.”
Frank nodded and put down his pipe. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “The Subterranean Companions are a well-organized group, armed and more-or-less disciplined. What if we recruit and arm a few hundred of these homeless farmers and then overthrow the whole Transport-Costa government?” Orcrist chuckled as he poured himself a scotch. “Overthrow is an easy word to say, Frank.”
“But we could!” Frank insisted. “The Transports are having all kinds of financial difficulties—they couldn’t maintain a long siege. And Costa is no military genius.”
“No,” said Orcrist, sipping his drink, “he isn’t. But I’ll tell you what he is. He’s the blood son of Topo, and that’s what counts. Even if we did, somehow, take over the palace and kill Costa, we couldn’t hold it because we have no one with royal blood to set up as a successor. And that is a prerequisite. The citizens of Octavio may not be fond of Costa, and they aren’t, you know, but they’re bound up by centuries of tradition. They won’t even consider accepting a duke who isn’t of the royal blood.”
“Ignorant cattle,” muttered Frank, aware in spite of himself that he, too, was unable to picture a duke who was not the descendant of a lot of other dukes.
“But,” said Orcrist thoughtfully, “we might figure out a way to keep Munson Understreet, at least, free of Transport influence. I’ll have to bring the matter up at the next meeting. Anyway, stop bothering your brains with politics and go put on a clean shirt. I’ve invited Kathrin Figaro over for a late glass of sherry.”
Frank stood up. “Righto,” he said, heading for the hallway. “Oh,” he said, turning, “I was just curious—I don’t suppose there’s any truth to George Tyler’s stories about being Topo’s son?”
Orcrist shook his head. “Come on, Frank. You’ve heard his stories. George is a good friend, and a moderately good poet, but a prince he is not.”
“I didn’t really think so,” said Frank, leaving the room.
Just as Frank reentered, buttoning the cuff of a new shirt, a knock sounded at the door. Frank threw himself into his chair and snatched up his pipe, then nodded to Orcrist, who proceeded to open the door.
“Kathrin!” he said. “Come in. You remember Frank Rovzar?”
“Of course,” smiled Kathrin as Frank stood up and kissed her hand.
Orcrist took Kathrin’s badger-skin stole and went to hang it up while Frank poured three glasses of sherry.
“There you are,” he smiled, handing her one of them.
“Thank you. Was there a fire in here? I smell burning rugs or something.”
“That’s my new tobacco.”
“Oh? What happened to that wonderful cherry stuff you were smoking before? That smelled delicious.”
“I think he lost his taste for it,” said Orcrist. “Kathrin, tell Frank about your new job.”
“Oh, yes. Frank, I’ve got a job in a dress shop on the surface! I’m a fashion designer. So you see you aren’t the only one around here who can draw.” Orcrist smiled wickedly and winked at Frank. “What were you reading there?” she asked, pointing at Frank’s book.
“A. E. Housman’s poetry,” Frank answered. “Have you ever read any of it?”
“No, but I love poetry. In fact, I wrote a poem last week. Would you like to hear it?”
“Sure,” answered Frank. “Bring it over some time. Would you like some more sherry?”
“No thank you. But I have the poem right here, in my purse.” She rummaged about in the purse while Frank and Orcrist exchanged worried glances. “Ah, here it is.” Then, in an embarrassingly over-animated voice, she began to read:
“Love, called the bird of my heart.
Do you hear it, the sweet song?
The children go dancing through the flowers
And I kiss your eyes like the sun kisses the
wheat.”
After a moment Kathrin raised her eyes. “It’s very personal,” she explained.
Frank caught Orcrist’s eye and looked quickly away. My God, he thought, I can’t laugh! He bit his tongue, but still felt dangerously close to exploding. Picking up his glass, he drained his sherry in one gulp, and choked on it. He coughed violently and thus managed to get rid of the most insistent edge of his laughter. “Are you all right?” asked Kathrin.
“Oh yes,” he assured her, gaspingly. “But some of the sherry went down the wrong way.”
“Well, what did you think of my poem?”
“Oh, well it ... it’s very good.” Behind her Frank could see Orcrist doing bird imitations with his hands. I will not laugh, Frank vowed. “I liked it.”
“I feel poetry should just ... flow from the heart,” she went on. “Do you know what I mean?”
“Precisely,” nodded Orcrist. “Now, I’m an old man and I need my rest, so I’ll be turning in. Why don’t you take Kathrin for a ride down the Timog Canal, Frank? That’d be pleasant, and I don’t imagine any of the Goriot fugitives would have wound up there.”
Frank nodded, grateful that the conversation had been steered away from the subject of Kathrin’s horrible poem. “That sounds good to me,” he said. “Have you ever taken a boat ride down the Timog?”
“No,” said Kathrin. “Is it safe?”
“Absolutely,” Orcrist assured her. “Even if it weren’t, Frank is one of the five best swordsmen in Munson Understreet, and maybe on the whole planet. You’ve got nothing to fear.” He fetched her wrap, draped it about her shoulders, and surreptitiously slipped Frank a five-malory note. Frank got his coat and strapped on his sword and they were ready to go.
“So long, Sam,” said Kathrin as they were leaving. “At least Frank doesn’t run down at ten o’clock.”
“I envy him his youth,” smiled Orcrist as he closed the door.
Chapter 2
A night wind sighed eerily down the length of the Timog Canal, wringing soft random chords from the many aeolian harps and wind chimes hung from the low stone ceiling.
Kathrin leaned on Frank’s shoulder. Frank put his arm around her—it seemed in some undefined way to be expected of him.